


The Snow of the Night

by Moonrose91



Series: Three Hundred Years of Being Forgotten (Mostly) [17]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:39:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moonrose91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fight had no winners, nor any losers, and no witnesses.</p><p>Save one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Snow of the Night

The moonlight stretched across the darkness of the forest, casting the night in equal parts light and shadow. Across the tree tops, a white haired boy, the Winter Child, flitted along, the North Wind pushing him along, lifting him up into the light and there was a movement, like shadow, that seemed to stop short each time.

The Winter Child laughs, his voice carrying to the village that cannot see or hear him, but are affected all the same, a happiness alighting in their hearts that they cannot explain. Below, in the shadows, a perfect sphere of white shoots up and hits the Winter Child on the foot.

The boy laughs brightly, warmly and he skims the trees fearlessly before he rolls, tossing another snowball into the shadows before he is quickly flitting up, as effortlessly as a snowflake caught in a gale. Another snowball flies up and strikes the boy, this time in the face, and he falters as he chokes on his laughter.

The North Wind almost cradles him, even as it begins to search the trees, rustling them ominously, or maybe it is the shadows, which seem to have taken shape, a form, lithe and lean as a man with too few meals. The shadows quickly disperses as a snowball flies towards them, and the Winter Child flits about, touching the tree tops, but not.

He dances above the shadows and throws snowballs he created with his own hand, grasping the staff tightly within his other hand.

The game ends as suddenly as it started when the Winter Child dips too low and with a shout of surprise is tugged into the darkness.

Laughter rises above the trees and then the Winter Child is flitting through the trees, darting between moonlight and shadow.

He is being chased by a form, one that the moonlight cannot seem to catch, no matter how much it stretches, until the Winter Child bursts out onto the frozen lake, laughing as he turns slightly to smile back at his partner, who enters the clearing in a swirl of shadow.

He is King of the Night or maybe just the things that go bump in the night.

He has a snowball in his hand and the Winter Child is smiling, bright enough and kind enough that it erases the lines of exhaustion that marred the child’s face, though they were not noticeable until they were gone.

The King of the Night is merely glowering at the boy and there is more laughter as, simultaneously, both are struck in the head by a snowball.

One is from the boy’s hand, the other is from the shadows behind the boy.

The boy pitches forward onto the ice, barely able to catch himself as the King reels back into the shadows and out of the moonlight.

“Truce?” the boy calls, a smile dancing in his voice when his face is hidden by shadow.

“I suppose one can be arranged, for now,” the man responded from the shadows themselves.

The boy stands, leaning on his staff as if it is the only thing keeping him upright. “You should rest,” the unseen King comments, his voice neutral.

“Is that concern I hear?” the boy answers, but he is already moving to the snow bank, thick and crisp with snow.

“Hardly,” the man drawls and the boy flops into the snow.

“I meant at  _home_.”

“This is home. And I don’t remember inviting you in,” the boy answered, but he wears a grin on his face and the snow is already lifting up, curling around him like a blanket.

“It is a frozen lake, not a home,” the shadowy man retorts.

“Is to me. Only place I’ve got, anyways. Unless  _you_  know of someone or someplace that will have me?”

The only answer is the soft sighing of the wind.

The boy, only a tuft of his hair peeking out of the snow, gives a nod.

“Very well. I shall leave you to your sleeping, Frost. I’d say sweet dreams, but you just spent a few hours in the company of the Boogeyman, so they are not likely to visit you tonight.”

There is a rustling and the shadows inexplicably lighten, as if a great presence has left them.

And above, silent and watchful, the Man in the Moon smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a request for the snowball fight.
> 
> I tried to write on.
> 
> I gave up when my muses demanded the fight.
> 
> So, officially, now, the 'Snowball Fight Arc' is over.
> 
> I shall return you to your regularly scheduled programming.


End file.
